Strings Attached
by sl8011
Summary: When 10.5 meet Sarah Jane Smith in his universe, he didn't expect himself to become utterly embroiled in an adventure featuring old enemies, television, guitars, psychedelic paisley shirts...and noses. Co-written by Fobwatch and sl8011.
1. Here We Go Again

**AN: **This was a challenge issued by sl8011 towards Fobwatch. In the end, we both decided to co-write.

Chapter 1: Here We Go Again

It had only been a few months since he'd arrived when she broke the news.

In frustration of not having a sonic screwdriver to fix things with anymore, he'd tried to whistle ultrasonically at an annoying leaking tap to connect it to the sink when he heard it.

'Rose?' he yelled, dropping the knob and sprinting to the study.

There she was, in front of the laptop, with her fists pumping the air.

'DOCTOR!' she screamed at the same alarming frequency that had caused him to come; Rose came racing over and hugged him until all the air was squeezed out of his stupid, human lungs. He gasped.

'Rose? What's wrong?'

'Nothing!' she roared back. 'Nothing's wrong! Everything's brilliant!'

She gave a long garbled monologue about... Well, he actually had no idea what it was about, because he didn't get a word. Grinning confusedly, he led her into the kitchen to calm her down with a glass of milk.

Rose Tyler tipped the contents of the tumbler down her throat and face, the creamy liquid dripping down her chin and pooling onto the dark granite. And then she grinned and hugged him again.

'Doctor, I've got something to confess,' she told him nervously when she let him go.

'What?' he said, eyeing her warily, unsure whether it would be rude to wipe the off the milk currently dripping down his suit.

Her smile was so enormous he was sure it would crack her face in half. Oh no, that would be terrible. Imagine all the blood. _Doctor, concentrate!_

He shifted his attention back to her. This behaviour was highly unnatural of her. Had some alien invaded her? He wriggled uncomfortably at the notion.

'Doctor? Concentrate!'

'Yes?'

'I am so excited, Doctor!'

'Really?' Now he was getting excited.

'I have the ultimate treat for us!'

'What is it?'

'_WE'RE GOING TO JAPAN_!' Rose screeched at top volume.

'Brilliant! Wait – _what_?'

'We're going to Japan!' she repeated. 'We're going to live there! My job application was just accepted!'

'What?'

'I filed it ages before you came to this universe...they didn't reply, so I thought I wouldn't get it, but I did!'

'What?'

She wiped the milk off her chin and poked him.

'I probably owe you an explanation, Doctor. You see, it was quite a while since I was left over here. And during that time...well, I got into anime.'

The Doctor could not stop staring. Was this really Rose? Rose? Anime? Japan? What?

'I know it sounds a bit mad,' she continued, 'but I really liked it, and I learnt the language and everything, and I'm going to be a producer.'

It didn't sound a bit mad. It sounded very mad. Madder than he was mad. And he was the maddest person he knew. Aside from his...original.

'But...but what about Torchwood?' he hedged.

Rose wrinkled her nose. 'Who cares about aliens when there is so much more?'

The Doctor was completely flabbergasted. Was this really Rose? Wait – he'd been thinking that before. Maybe a Slitheen had gotten her. Shut up, brain.

'But I can't just leave everyone here vulnerable to alien attacks just to go to Japan with you!' he cried.

A very long and very loud argument ensued next, one that included a lot of broken crockery, complaining neighbours and insults to both aliens and anime. But it did end eventually, and when it ended, Rose's path led to the production of Japanese animation, and the Doctor's path led to the nearest hotel.

_**A year later**_

'Please,' the Doctor begged, 'it doesn't have to be like this.'

It was one of the more weird aliens he'd encountered. It looked like a nose with legs, and was known as a Lavedium.

The Lavedium scoffed. 'You're sounding like a romantic comedy male protagonist.'

'I can help you!' the Doctor cried. 'Just leave this planet.'

The nosey alien made a face. 'No, I won't. This planet has a wonderful mixture of land and salt water to clean out my nostrils. I've got a hundred spaceships waiting for my command in your stratosphere, and you are the only thing in my way. So, sorry, half-Time Lord, but I may have to get rid of you. Don't take it personally.'

This was getting quite dire. The Doctor frantically looked for anything to delay the Lavedium, but to no avail.

And then he spotted it. A small metal bin. There was no time to waste – nimbly dodging the enormous nose, he lunged for the bin. Hot air breathed down on him, and he looked up into a huge nostril. With all his might, he stuffed th–

_Smash_.

'OI, YOU! NOSE! GET A HANDFUL OF THIS!'

A lethal round of automatic gunfire spat at the Lavedium from the broken-down door, splattering the enormous nose with its own blood. Slightly shocked, the Doctor crawled away from it, still clutching the bin.

'Stop! Stop! Stop!' he choked out at the gunner. 'Don't kill it!'

However, in all the swirling dust, heavy gunfire and nasal blood, his words were smothered into nothingness.

Eventually, the noise faltered and the bullets ceased, and a woman's voice came through the dust.

'Hey, you! Are you OK?'

The Doctor frowned. He'd heard that voice somewhere before, but it sounded a bit different.

'Hey! Answer me! Are you dead?'

Very different.

He got to his feet, tossing the bin aside. The dust was starting to settle, and the sight before him shocked him out of his very mind (an incredible feat, as his mind was rather large and there was lots of room).

'Sarah Jane..._Smith_?'

But she wasn't. It was only her parallel version, but it couldn't have been more different. Her appearance was very similar, but a bit younger, perhaps, and it ended there. Her clothes were all made of black leather, as if she was about to shoot off on the motorcycle behind her. It did help that there was a motorcycle parked right behind her. But the Doctor's hugest shock was the sight of the two _positively enormous_ and lethal-looking automatics in her hands.

'You've heard of me?' she asked, casually flipping the guns back into her holsters.

'Er...'

She strolled over to him.

'You shouldn't have killed it, you know,' he blurted just as she was about to stick her hand out.

And the gun-toting, leather-wearing, motorbike-riding parallel version of Sarah Jane Smith made a very non-Sarah Jane-ish face.


	2. How Long Will This Take?

**A/N: Hello people reading this fic. Enjoy~**

Chapter 2: How Long Will This Take?

'Oh _great._ _Another_ hippy prat who won't let me hold a gun and shoot! I save their lives; do I get a thanks? No! I get a whiny, high-pitched, pathetic: "_Why did you kill it?_"' the parallel Sarah Jane growled. 'I hate hippies.'

She turned around on her heel, prepared to flounce back to her Harley Davison.

'I'm not a hippie…' The pathetic trail of sound drifted behind her.

Sarah Jane swung back, her hands on hips.

'Sorry, my mistake,' she proclaimed sardonically, 'please forgive me; you're not a hippie, you're a pathetic, whiny little brat!'

She marched over to the awaiting motorcycle, vaulting into the leather seat. After a few revs, she zoomed off into the distance, leaving a trail of acrid smoke billowing behind her that clouded the stunned Doctor's vision.

The Doctor wedged himself off the blood-speckled concrete gingerly, feeling around for broken body parts. Finding none, he looked over at the unfortunate Lavedium, and immediately regretted the decision. It was black and red from clotting blood, with covered with large bullet holes. What calibre were the guns? He resisted the urge to throw up. Turning away, he pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the number for Torchwood, dropping off the details about the dead nose. After the information was logged in, he hung up and rubbed his hands together. OK, now Torchwood was coming for Nosey, he could actually _do_ something.

Popping on his glasses, the Doctor inspected the bitumen closely. A grin spread over his face as he found what he'd been looking for, and then he proceeded to sprint after long trail of burnt road created by Sarah Jane.

It didn't take him very long to find her, because she was stuck behind a red light. Out of breath, the Doctor crept up to her ear.

'Hello, I found you!' he gasped.

She swung her head around sharply, clipping his nose with her helmet, took a moment to register who it was, then yelled, 'Screw this!' before turning around and veering off, swerving into a dodgy-looking alleyway.

The Doctor was left gobsmacked in the middle of the road. _No one has ever done this to me! Only __**I**__ leave people, not people leave me! This is shocking! People usually swoon forever over my dashingly handsome good looks!_ _Even old ladies think I'm "dishy"!_ He was completely cut; his heart shattered into a million splinters.

He was aroused from his inner ramble when a Mercedes sped at him, horn blaring. He dived out of the way; that talent had been perfected ages ago. Well, actually, only as his other self. This was _his_ unlucky first time; he landed head first into a nearby rubbish bin that had been oh-so conveniently left out in his flight path.

He found himself stuck to a rotting banana peel. Disgusted, he slowly extricated himself from the clutches of the yellow-brown octopus. Slowly, he climbed out of the bin. He then slowly walked off into the distance, into the slowly dipping sunset where Sarah Jane had biked off to at full speed.

_12 hours later_

Sarah Jane was awoken by a waft of smell that slowly seeped its way up her nasal cavities and a loud patterned knocking sound that made its way into her ear holes. She grabbed her pillow and shoved it over her head, and welcomed the wonderful world of unconsciousness. Two hours later, Sarah Jane was awoken by stronger wisps of stench – pure stench – storming its way up her unfortunate nose. A _ta-ta-ta-tap_ rattled her front door and assaulted her delicate ear drums. She grabbed a pair of head phones and put on loud rock music ("Who Are You", the original album version, mind, which was long, loud and rude), to block out the irritating tapping.

As if that would help her _delicate_ ear drums.

After waging a mini war with the tapping and volume knob, she could still hear the damned tapping. When the volume hit one hundred percent and there was no way in which Roger Daltrey could scream '_Who the **** are you?_' any louder, she decided to check out the monster downstairs. She yanked the headphones off, dumping them unceremoniously onto her covers. As a precaution of the mysterious knocker, she picked up with a toy lightsaber, and an actual, working lightsaber in each hand.

She dashed down the stairs, bumping her head in the process. Wrenching open the door, she saw with considerable shock that it was a walking rubbish bin, and with a battle cry, she switched her real lightsaber on and brought it whooshing down. However, the walking rubbish bin suddenly moved, raising its hands and releasing a garbled flurry of words that could not be identified without highly sophisticated digital voice translation from fifty years in the future.

Suspiciously, Sarah Jane lowered her weapon of mass destruction and held up her weapon incapable of any destruction. With it, she poked it in the general chest and face area, squinting.

'You look awfully familiar.'

The Doctor's (as the walking rubbish bin had been him) eyes lit up with pure happiness.

'Yes!' he cried. 'It's me!'

'Yeh, it's you, isn't it?'

'Yes!'

'Yeh, I know you.'

'Yes!'

'You're a fan, arencha?'

'Yes! You finally recognised m – wait, what?"

'You're a fan, arencha?'

'No!'

'Then what are you?'

'I am an agent of secret stuff.' The Doctor grinned charmingly through an old Dairy Milk wrapper, puffing up his Asian-takeaway-box-covered chest in pride. 'I have all of time and space next to me. Well, before anyway – now I work for Torchwood.'

Sarah Jane rose an eyebrow in disdain and disbelief. She opened her mouth and said, 'Torchwood.'

'Yes.'

'Them.'

'Of course.'

'Wait – aren't you that hippy?'

'Yes.'

'Get off my lawn or my lack of lawn.'

'Wait, what?'

'You're Torchwood, right?' With copious amounts of suspense, Sarah Jane raised her weapon of mass destruction and held it in front of his chest.

'Well, not really…'

'You either are or you aren't. Three seconds.' Sarah Jane wielded the lightsaber menacingly at his throat.

The Doctor swallowed nervously, allowing himself to prepare to launch into a rambling speech about peace and weapons, which could probably save his weak human skin.

'No.' _Rule one: The Doctor lies. Well, at least my other self did, I haven't lied that much in this world._

Sarah Jane was about to let him in, until her brain decided at that time to wake up properly and remind her that _this _man had been stalking her. And that she was going to be extremely late for work if she conversed with the idiot any longer.

And with that she slammed the door in his face.

The Doctor was gobsmacked. Again! Not only had she slammed the door in his face but she had also threatened him with an _actual_ weapon! Not that he wasn't used to that. The Doctor decided to do something useful. He carefully hatched his plan, inconspicuously, of course.

He sneaked off gradually, on the lookout for new clothing. Preferably ones that didn't remind one strongly of a stink bomb that went wrong.

Sarah Jane sprinted upstairs to change into more appropriate clothing for the situation at hand, i.e. T-shirt, jeans, leather boots and leather jacket. Not to mention the usual sunglasses and the real lightsaber hidden inside her jacket.

Sarah Jane grabbed her guitar stuff bag as she tossed together some instant coffee. After that, she dashed out and leapt onto her Harley.

The Doctor watched from the shadows, proud of his new freshly-pressed blue suit. His plan was about to enter Phase One.


	3. Attached

**AN: Hello. **

Chapter 3: Strings Attached

There were few places in the whole of reality (which includes the whole space-time continuum and each parallel universe) quite like parallel Sarah Jane's workplace. It was positively enormous, and it had a careful climate control, a bit like a museum. In fact, the only thing that made that place different to a museum was that you were allowed to touch things and buy them. It was a guitar shop, although the word "warehouse" might suit it more.

Each vertical surface (and there were a lot of vertical surfaces) was wallpapered with band posters – Led Zeppelin, the Beatles – and currently, Eric Clapton's heavily distorted, bluesy guitar was pumping quietly out of fancy surround-sound speakers. The air smelt clean and crisp, like fresh linen, and tasted slightly woody, and skylights projected the sun's glow onto hundreds upon hundreds of guitars. There were all sorts – acoustic and electric, and also basses, ukuleles, banjos, mandolins – and they hung in their masses along walls and down forever aisles. Down one aisle resided Gibsons; another was dedicated to Ibanez. There were stairs leading to "CDs and Vinyls". Towards the back was various bits of guitarist paraphernalia, and in the front was Sarah Jane.

Idealistically, she would have been alone, minding her own business behind the cluttered counter, but she wasn't alone in three senses. The first sense was that she wasn't the only person working there – there were obviously lots of other people working there as it was such a huge place. The second sense was that she wasn't in an empty, quiet (with the exception of Eric Clapton) sort of haven – there were lots of customers as well, and they were trying out guitars. Sometimes plugged in. And the third sense was that she was actually with someone. A skinny teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing a psychedelic paisley shirt. They were both standing cross-armed, staring at a Fender.

The Doctor shuffled in, feeling slightly out-of-place, which was a strange sensation to him.

_How ironic_, he thought wryly. _I can fit like a chameleon in the middle of a crowd of Hath, but not a guitar shop._

Keeping a sideways eye on Sarah Jane, he sidled up to the unmanned counter and feigned interest in the thousands of different types of plectra (for some reason, they weren't sitting at the back with the rest of the paraphernalia). However, the interest did not stay feigned for much longer – there were plain ones, ones with people's autographs, ones with band logos, ones with pictures of mushrooms, ones made out of credit cards and old vinyl records and ones with funny slogans on them. He took one of the latter out. _Love is in the air? False. Nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide are in the air._

The Doctor couldn't see how on Earth the presence of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide being in the air instead of love had anything to do with music other than John Paul Young, but it was kind of funny.

Within five minutes he had become completely absorbed by plectra and was wondering if he should start a plectrum collection, even if he didn't play the guitar.

'D'you need help?' came a projected voice.

He whirled around, dropping the plec which hit the lino with a faint tap. He looked around and saw Sarah Jane and the teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt frowning in his direction. He gave them a winning smile.

'Just having a look,' he said through his grinning teeth.

The teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt focused his attention back onto the Fender, but Sarah Jane didn't.

'Hang on a mo'...' she murmured, and suddenly she had grabbed the front of the Doctor's shirt, and despite her severely lacking height, managed to yank it up to his chin and constrict his windpipe.

'What the hell is this?' she yelled, bits of spit hitting his face. The Doctor saw with his periphery the teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt turn around to stare, and he wasn't the only one.

'Um?' choked the Doctor.

'You're that hippy, arencha? You've been stalking me! That's – that's against the law, you know! Ohhh, I _knew_ it! Torchwood! Torchwood's sent you! Just – just oh...'

The parallel Sarah Jane shouted something unprintable.

'Mmgf!'

'Um, Ms Smith?' came a very innocent sounding voice.

Sarah Jane snapped her head around, and the Doctor slid his fiercely bulging eyes down. It was the teenage boy with curly blond hair wearing the psychedelic paisley shirt.

'Yes, Teenage-Boy-with-Curly-Blond-Hair-Wearing-the-Psychedelic-Paisley-Shirt?' Sarah Jane smiled sweetly, subconsciously loosening her grip on the Doctor's shirt.

The Doctor gasped for air, clutching his heart, and blurted, 'What – is that really his name?'

The two gave him an extremely sarcastic look.

'_No_,' said Sarah Jane with a "duh" sort of tone. 'Who the hell calls their children weird names like that? He's Fred.'

'Anyway, Ms Smith,' Fred continued very seriously, suddenly focusing all his attention onto Sarah Jane and making the Doctor feel very left-out, 'I'd like to ask about the Fender pickups. Do you think that they are better on a Stratocaster or a Telecaster?'

'Look, Fred,' Sarah Jane sighed, patting his blond curls (she had to reach up – she was shorter than him by a quite a bit). 'I haven't got the time for this now; I need to deal with this git.'

And she marched off, dragging the unfortunate Doctor by the tie, and leaving a slightly bemused Fred behind.

The Doctor found himself in a cramped and dark room full of cardboard boxes. Sarah Jane flicked on the fluorescent overhead strip lights; they cast down a lacklustre white glow.

Nervously, he started to settle down onto a box, but as if she had a sixth sense, Sarah Jane whirled around with a frown.

'Oi! Get off the box!'

As if his bottom had been branded, the Doctor jumped back up quickly. His mind was a blur.

'So,' Sarah Jane said, turning around to bolt the door.

_Damn it_, thought the Doctor. _I'm locked in a room with an angry woman. I'm going to get raped! No – shut up! Aaargh!_

'I'm going to ask a few questions, and you are going to answer them. Or else...'

With a manic grin, she reached inside her jacket and pulled out the lightsaber, which she calmly flicked on.

_Damn it_, thought the Doctor. _I'm locked in a room with an angry woman holding a light sabre. I'm going to die! No – shut up! Aaargh!_

'First. Who are you?'

'I – ' The word caught in his dry throat and he swallowed. 'I'm the Doctor.'

'Doctor who?'

'Just the Doctor.'

'And you expect me to believe that, doncha?' Sarah Jane waved the light sabre in his face.

'Y-yes...'

'Do you think I'm stupid?'

'N-no...'

'Then WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS YOUR NAME?' she shrieked, half-deranged.

'The Doctor!'

She brought the lightsaber alarmingly close to his hand; he could feel the sheer power and doom it held.

'John Smith,' he whimpered.

Sarah Jane snorted derisively, and then with a carefully placed nudge, poked the Doctor's finger. White hot pain seared through his nerves, exploding his mind.

'Fine!' he gasped. 'I'm the Doctor.'

'So that's your final answer?' asked the parallel Sarah Jane, like some mental game show host.

He nodded, the pain too great for him to speak.

'Right. Second question. Who sent you?'

The pain was ebbing away slowly, and after a while the Doctor regained his senses.

'What?' he choked.

'Who sent you?'


	4. Running Never Really Failed 'Cept

Chapter 4: Running never really failed. 'Cept...

'No one sent me,' The Doctor squeaked; he had been trying to sound tough and manly, but that had unsurprisingly backfired on him. A lot of things had backfired on him in the past; what mattered if another had been added to that long list of things?

'But you work for Torchwood.'

Suddenly beeping noise started to emit from Sarah Jane's lightsaber.

_Damn it_, she thought, _the bloody batteries are going to run out_.

'Yes,' the Doctor replied, feeling much better with each passing second, mainly due to the fact that the lightsaber was losing power.

'Drat.'

Sarah Jane turned around to look as her weapon of mass destruction slowly became one that looked just cool but wasn't capable of any destruction, mass or otherwise. She groaned and whirled around to face the Doctor.

'Anyway,' she said calmly and pulled out a notebook out of her pocket after pocketing the harmless lightsaber. 'Why are you stalking me?'

'Becauseyouremindedmeofsomeone,' the Doctor mumbled quietly.

'Pardon?' Sarah Jane was feeling a lot calmer than before and began to actually think about what she was doing. With a mad guy from Torchwood. Who was stalking her.

She wondered if she should move from that petty topic and onto one more worthwhile and was contemplating about the fact that humans had at least nine senses and if perhaps she really should slap the man with her trustworthy notebook, when the Doctor spoke up again.

'Because. You. Reminded. Me. Of. Someone.' The Doctor spoke carefully and slowly, wondering if all humans needed help with listening, or if Sarah Jane's age had finally caught up with her.

'EXCUSE ME?'

All of a sudden a stinging sensation that was oddly felt like paper sent the Doctor reeling back into a few cardboard boxes.

'GET OFF! GET OFF!'

The Doctor tried and failed to stand up, instead breaking about seventy-eight percent of the precious vinyl records that resided in the boxes below.

Sarah Jane's face was oddly calm, but it wasn't a good calm – it was the sort of the calm there was right before a storm.

'_Right_, first you stalk me to my home and then to work.' Sarah Jane had taken this chance to force the Doctor into a corner and was drilling holes into his very body using her eyes. She slipped her notebook back into the pocket that was filled with fake IDs.

'_Then_, you interrupt my work. _Then_ you wreck the vinyl records in that box.'

She was gesturing wildly trying to emphasise her very important points to the _infantile_ man cowering in the corner.

'Not only that! You _stalked_ me, because I merely looked like someone you knew, and then you have the guts to call me_ old_!'

_Oops, _the Doctor thought miserably, _seems like I said that out aloud. I really _am_ rude and not ginger. I miss being able to change faces. No one would ever know who I was. But then, I am feared in many galaxies...I suppose they would recognise me anyway. _

_Tap, tap_, Sarah Jane spun around to locate the sound and unlocked the door swinging it open.

It was a cheery-looking young man. He was wearing an inexplicably cheesy grin as he said, 'Sorry SJ, but something came up, and I have to leave now. I'll come back to check the guitars out later.'

'Of course, Matt, the lovely person who will try to remember to never address me as SJ ever again in his long and healthy life. I'll get someone else to _fill in your position_.'

'Is it him?' Matt asked curiously.

'Yep.'

The Doctor stood up at that moment with a grin on his face, and proclaimed, 'I haven't worked in a shop before, and will I have a name tag?'

'Yes,' Sarah Jane took off Matt's name tag (mysteriously enough, it had the name "Fred" on it), handing it to the Doctor. 'You can be him for the afternoon.'

The Doctor got all misty-eyed at this simple gesture and began to weep; Matt and Sarah Jane decided that this would be a good time to leave the obviously deranged man.

After they left, they clearly heard him murmur, 'Oh, Romana, I remember how you wished to be called Fred.'

Matt left to catch the train to his mother's flat, while Sarah Jane dragged the Doctor out to instruct him on what to do for the rest of her shift. Which was fixing guitars and stacking CDs.

Half an hour into his shift, the Doctor was immensely bored; there was nothing available to entertain his powerful and knowledgeable Gallifreyan brain. Saving the universe was so much more fun that re-stringing guitars.

So, after double-checking that Sarah Jane was preoccupied with her insane guitar playing, he began to emit the shrill, high pitched sonic screwdriver noise that never worked. His shrill sound coming out of his mouth that was meant to fix guitars and unlock doors, unfortunately, didn't work.

Instead, many customers started suddenly to have mysterious twitches in their faces; some of them were kissing the floor (they'd fainted from the noise). Sarah Jane was unaffected due to the headphones covering her ears. The _warehouse_ looked as though Keith Moon and Pete Townshend had gotten to it; the racks had all toppled over, the guitars were smashed to pieces, the posters looked like they'd been put through shredders and re-hung, and all the Doctor's favourite plecs were all split in half. All that was left was a wooden door leading...somewhere.

When Sarah Jane realised the guitar she had playing was broken and the headphone's wires were fried, she looked up, observed the scene before her, strode calmly towards the Doctor and fish-slapped him twice with great deliberation.

His face was surprisingly filled with guilt when he looked deeply into her eyes and said with a hoarse voice, 'I am _so_ sorry.'

Sarah Jane rose an eyebrow and said, 'This when I should ask you why are you so sorry, and then really should kick you out, but I won't because you need to clear up this mess, and I have to meet Pete in five minutes.'

'Pete?'

'Head of Torchie.'

'Torchie,' the Doctor deadpanned.

'Yes, Torchie, or _Torchwood_,' Sarah Jane deadpanned back, using her "yes-tourist-I-am-talking-to-you" voice.

The ambulance arrived soon after, and Sarah Jane directed the ambulance officers into the store where they started lifting out the suffering customers, who were all glaring at the Doctor. As the Doctor stood guiltily in the corner with the cleanest bit of floor, Sarah Jane telephoned her insurance company and told them that 'a strange man was using inappropriate ultrasonic devices which destroyed everything'. The insurance people assured her that all costs would have to be covered by the 'strange man'.

As soon as the invalid customers had left, Sarah Jane hung up, zipped out of the store and locked up behind her; she had locked up every exit before the Doctor had even registered what happened.

He looked up then and discovered a note floating about which, by a pure and impressive coincidence, landed neatly on top of his head.

_Clean up and I'll let you out. Eventually._

_Cheers, _

_SJS_

_P.S Good luck!_

He sighed and trundled off to find a broom. Or an exit. He soon found a broom that hadn't been shattered and started to sweep. He then spied a ventilation shaft; he grinned and dashed off to yank the cover off. The screws had been unscrewed because of his high-pitched sonic-ing.

He slid the front half of his body into the shaft before he tried to climb in, then realised something was wrong. _Very_ wrong. His hips would not let him into the shaft; he struggled and struggled, but nothing would work. This time, running away hadn't worked for him. He had tried to escape from the shaft, but couldn't get out. His hips were stuck.

He flailed around for a while, but nothing worked.

He, the Doctor's clone, was stuck and unlike the Doctor, he had no companion to rescue him from this awful predicament.

And he was fat.

**A/N: Sarah Jane and a lightsaber was produced through thinking about it during maths. **


	5. A Plan In Progress

**AN**: A short chapter as a filler, because we couldn't think of what to do...

Chapter 5: A Plan in Progress

Rose Tyler leaned back in her chair in utter and complete satisfaction.

'Thank you!' she cried as she fondled the hard drive the nerdy-looking Japanese man had handed her. Feeling embarrassed, he bobbed his head politely.

'This is the completed version,' he told her. 'It should be ready to air in a few months. The advertising's all up and this should be greatly anticipated.'

'I'm sure it'll be brilliant,' Rose assured him. 'Thank you so much. I can hardly wait!'

The man went rather red, although this was mainly because he had a crush on Rose.

'Are all the satellites ready?' she asked.

He nodded rigorously.

Rose smiled and stood up, basically towering over him. 'Good man.'

And then she patted his head.

After locking the soundproof door and dimming the lights, Rose settled onto a soft loveseat and with great drama she pressed the play button. It was her new anime, _Love Me_, a rather sappy and melodramatic series which was bound for high ratings.

However, there were bigger plans for _Love Me_.

Rose wasn't really done with aliens. She never was. The Doctor had changed everything for her. And even though she'd met a lot of bad aliens, she'd met tons of wonderful aliens too.

This show was for them.

Rose wasn't stupid. She'd learnt a lot during her time in the parallel Torchwood, and something they'd been working on was hypersatellite broadcast technology to try and obtain information from different planets. Rose helped develop the prototype and refined the actual satellite, which was released secretly into space shortly before she left.

The current satellite was supposed to receive information and send it to Torchwood, but with some neat hacking after she left, Rose was able to reverse the signals; _out_ to the aliens. Here in Japan, with its _much_ more sophisticated technology, she was able to create a satellite dish that would transmit signals to the Torchwood hypersatellite and broadcast them to alien satellites. Entertainment to the extraterrestrial. Rose's gift to the aliens.

A smile stretched across Rose's face as she previewed the series, thinking of the would-be success it would gain. It would be _out of this world_.

Blowing her nose and wiping tears of soppiness-overload from her cheeks, Rose unplugged the hard drive and skipped out of the private theatre, stopping at the nerdy-looking Japanese man's office.

'I watched it!' she announced through tears after a hasty bow. 'It was so beautiful!'

The man bowed back, blushing hard –very hard.

Rose stared at him, unable to comprehend why his face had begun to resemble Ron Weasley's hair.

'Are you all right?' she asked. 'Do you have a fever coming on?'

'No, no,' mumbled the Japanese man.

'Your face is very red,' observed Rose.

The man went redder, if possible, and then he mumbled something very quickly, and sped off in the opposite direction.


End file.
